My Ugliness by John Tustin

There is something that seems natural
And right
About a man
Drinking alone
And writing moping poetry
As the phone sits silent
And the music that emanates
From the headphones
Poses as people
Whose noise would occupy
An otherwise stifled room.

I belong here,
The cat staring a room away,
Reading Bukoswski
And Li Po
And ee
Cummings,
Alone
Alone alone.

My beer does not get the chance
To get warm.
My eyes moist with memories
Of someone beautiful
In this same room
Calling me beautiful
Not so very long ago.

That is past.
Today is almost yesterday.
Tomorrow will almost certainly be worse
As it becomes today,
The sun spilling in through the blinds
Like a smiling curse.

The night is dying
But the dawn is death
Because it breaks
Without hope.

In the night
My scars gleam
Like silver.

In the night
My words are the slickest
Arrows
Finding their intended targets.

In the night
My ugliness is clean
And almost beautiful
To me,

My tears a pantomime
To indicate
There is something
Within.

John Tustin

John Tustin has two perfect children and no awards or trophies. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry is a link to his poetry online.

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